


one brash phrase could crush this fragile day

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ella Enchanted Fusion, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Coercion, Communication, Curse of Obedience, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Hospitals, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, assault attempt/dubcon not between jaskier and geralt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25346482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: Over time, Jaskier got good at it—being known as a public figure without anyone truly knowing him personally.  Sometimes a fan or a lover would ask him to stay, but he never did—he could say no to plain requests.  Once someone even asserted that he couldn’t write convincingly about love because he never stayed long enough to find it, shouted before they told him firmly to leave.  Which he did.He had always been told it was a blessing, but he never understood how.-- --an ella enchanted au
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cw for ch 1/2: - obedience curse related issues of consent, - in ch.1 Jaskier cannot say no to someone who propositions him, and that same man threatens Jaskier with a knife but is killed before anything can get further than kissing, - some injury descriptions.
> 
> much thanks to [my wonderful beta zade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade).

Jaskier had always been told it was a blessing. 

“Now you’ll be good,” his mother said, although he had never been a particularly unruly child. 

“Discipline is what enables one to rise to the top,” said his father, his hand clamped heavily on Jaskier’s shoulder. As though Jaskier wasn’t starting near the top already, as though, with his hands bearing separate calluses from his pen and his strings, he wasn’t disciplined. 

“Julian, be a dear,” his mother says. It’s how she starts every command, like softening the words with an affectionate name will make it feel less like drowning when the command settles over him. It doesn’t, it only makes it worse. 

“Listen to your professors,” his father said, when he left for school. As if Jaskier wasn’t so thrilled to be leaving the stifling air of his parents’ house that he would have gladly jumped off a bridge if one of his professors asked. 

“Julian, be a dear and keep that noise out of the house,” his mother said when he came home between terms, excited to show them how his musical education had progressed. He didn’t stay home long. 

“A man has to put down frivolities and take responsibility. Put down that piece of shit, get back to school, and don’t come home until you’re ready to take responsibility,” his father said, as Jaskier stood trembling with his lute in hand. Jaskier gripped the instrument as the weighted words dropped over him, held it until his eyes stung and his nose started to bleed, and then dropped it on the floor and left. He didn’t come back. 

Instead, he started traveling around, started performing, abandoning his name in his father’s house. He never slept in the same place twice, and never with the same co-occupant, avoiding getting to know anyone well enough for them to really know him. His reputation flourished—he was known for playing exactly what the people wanted to hear, and for being an attentive lover, who took direction well. 

Over time, Jaskier got good at it—being  _ known _ as a public figure without anyone truly knowing him personally. Sometimes a fan or a lover would ask him to stay, but he never did—he could say no to plain requests. Once someone even asserted that he couldn’t write convincingly about love because he never stayed long enough to find it, shouted before they told him firmly to leave. Which he did. 

He had always been told it was a blessing, but he never understood how.

— —

“Is this the fastest you can walk?” 

Jaskier thinks that’s a little rich, considering that Geralt is sitting on a horse and Jaskier is still trotting alongside on his own feet, but he makes a little bit of effort to quicken his stride. He appreciates being asked, at least. 

“Tell me again,” Jaskier says, panting slightly due to the quicker speed, “what happened. In detail.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. Jaskier can’t actually  _ see _ Geralt’s eyes, but he’s done this enough at this point to know that his eyes are rolling. Although Geralt stopped trying to get Jaskier to leave and they settled into...whatever this is...he apparently never really understood that in order for Jaskier to write incredible ballads about Geralt’s deeds and battles, Jaskier had to actually get some information about said deeds and battles. 

Instead, what he’s gotten today is a lot of nothing, plus some grumbling and the incredible sickly smell of whatever entrails are currently adorning Geralt’s hair. 

“It was a monster,” Geralt says, sounding bored. “And I killed it.”

“Right, yes, obviously. That’s going to make just an excellent song, isn’t it? The ballad of the unspecified monster and how it was killed, two stanzas and then it’s over, precisely what the people want.” 

“You never know, shorter songs might make you more popular,” Geralt mutters, and even though Jaskier can tell he’s making a joke (or at least he hopes he can tell), he still spends the rest of the walk sulking and making exaggerated sounds of offense. 

The town is moderately sized, which means it has an inn, and Geralt leaves Jaskier there while he goes to drop off some monster parts as proof of service. Jaskier doesn’t listen as closely as he probably should, his mind swirling with dreams of food and beer and an actual bed with a mattress thick enough he won’t be able to feel every stick on the ground under it.

Jaskier pays for a room, haggling just a bit for the price because somehow Geralt always knows when he doesn’t, until the innkeeper tells him, “just put your coin down already, and leave me be.” And of course, Jaskier does. It’s slightly annoying to find himself sitting in an alcove off the main room with his purse lightened and without having had the chance to inquire as to whether he could play for the evening crowd and try to earn a bit of his money back. 

“Leave him be,” Jaskier mutters, idly tuning his lute and hoping Geralt gets there soon so he can approach the bar and get them both beers. “As though it’s no benefit to him to have something to liven up this dreary place, really he should be begging me to play, should be giving us the room at no cost but nooo, he has to be rude and, actually, damn this string to hell, anyway. And another thing...”

“Who are you talking to?” Geralt drops into the seat across from him. 

Jaskier instantly perks up, although he tries not to be too obvious about it. The thing about Geralt is this: he’s a little bit terrifying (in a gorgeous way), and conversationally stunted, and an all around pain in the ass, but he’s never given Jaskier an order. And Jaskier is, he thinks, just a little bit in love with him. 

“Just...talking.” Jaskier finds it almost impossible to keep himself from smiling just a little bit. It’s been about an hour that they’ve been apart and Jaskier felt every minute. “To myself, I suppose.” 

“As long as it wasn’t to your lute,” Geralt says, looking around them grimly. “The people here are suspicious enough of me as it is.”

“Well,  _ you _ talk to your horse,” Jaskier lobs back, although it’s less effective since Geralt has already left the table and is approaching the bar. And also, Roach definitely understands what’s being said to her. Unlike Jaskier’s lute. 

He decides to forgive Geralt quickly though, since he comes back with two mugs of beer (the taste of which is better than what Jaskier had imagined finding in this caliber of establishment) and a plate of cheese and bread that’s slightly stale but not nearly as stale as the one in Geralt’s pack that they’ve been picking at for the past day and a half. All in all, an excellent haul. 

The situation improves even more when it turns out the innkeeper leaves working early and his son takes over. Jaskier finds the son much more approachable and amenable to Jaskier’s charms, and within a few minutes of the younger man taking over, Jaskier is holding two more overflowing pints of beer and the promise that he can play for the rest of the evening if he wants. Which, of course, he does. 

Jaskier takes a break after an hour or so—the crowd has started to liven up, and he’s getting a good enough response, but Jaskier doesn’t want to waste all of his material on people who either aren’t intelligent or drunk enough to be moved to offer him coin. He saunters back up to the bar, where he is straightaway handed two even larger mugs with a grin from the innkeeper’s son before he scurries off to meet with the other clamoring customers. 

“Here,” Jaskier says, setting the mugs heavily on the table where Geralt is sitting silently, rubbing some sort of oil on his gloves. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

Geralt nods, the hints of a smile coming through his otherwise unhappy expression. Jaskier lives for that—for the small smiles that peek through at him, wrinkling the corners of Geralt’s eyes. It doesn’t happen as often as he’d like. 

“We should leave early tomorrow,” Geralt says, exchanging the glove for one of the mugs. “There’s whispers of something killing livestock a few towns over.” He gives Jaskier a meaningful look. “So could you please try not to stay up all night?”

Jaskier takes a long drink of his beer to hide his grin, although he throws in a wink for good measure. This thing that they’re doing, roaming around fighting monsters and writing epics, it’s become the most important thing in his life, and it’s only recently that Geralt has stopped arguing that Jaskier might be better off staying in one of the villages, has started referring to them collectively as ‘we,’ assuming that Jaskier will come with him but never demanding it. It makes Jaskier’s stomach churn warmly.

“No promises,” he quips. Geralt just gives him a look that Jaskier knows means he won’t be indulging Jaskier’s attempts at more conversation, so Jaskier shrugs and walks back towards the open area he’s claimed as a stage. 

The rest of the evening goes by in a blur. He plays, he drinks, he gets demands for songs he has to acquiesce to, and his pockets fill with coins from his admirers. Jaskier is starting to think that he misjudged this town, and this inn. He’s honestly having a very good time, although it may have something to do with the copious amounts of beer he’s been handed over the past few hours. He’d be having an even better time if Geralt would stop being stoic and boring and engage with him, but even he can’t wring water from a stone. 

Still, he’s only half paying attention to the tall dark-haired stranger leaning closer and closer and plying him with drinks and conversation. He’s watching Geralt sit halfway across the room and drink, and then he’s watching Geralt get up and leave for their room upstairs. There’s a split second where Geralt looks over at him, too; where their eyes meet and Jaskier can’t imagine doing anything but disentangling himself from this stranger and following Geralt upstairs. It doesn’t last long before Geralt’s turning away, frowning, but it’s there, and Geralt’s request for Jaskier to not stay up too late echoes in his mind. 

“Oh, would you look at how late it is,” Jaskier says, all apologies and charm, “I really should be getting back to my room. Beauty sleep and all that.” 

He starts to sidle away, but the stranger presses a soft palm against his arm and says “No, c’mon, stay.”

Jaskier grits his teeth against the casual command. It settles over him like a blanket, warm and constricting. He used to try to fight it, when he was younger—he’d fight it until his muscles hurt and his nose bled and he passed out—but now he’s old enough to realize that only attracts more attention to him. Sometimes people change their minds, revoke their own orders. Sometimes Jaskier just grits his teeth and tries to get it over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. 

“Of course,” Jaskier says, because he has to. The stranger beams. He has nice teeth, Jaskier reflects, and a nice enough smile, although it doesn’t have the same quiet focus as when Geralt smiles, like it’s just for Jaskier. 

“So what brings you to a backwater town like this?” The stranger asks, and Jaskier takes a long pull from his cup. He only has to stay, he doesn’t have to make small talk. He will, though, because he has  _ some _ manners. 

“Just a stop on the road to fame,” he quips, and the stranger looks appropriately charmed. “But please, tell me about you.”

The man starts talking, keeping his body positioned close to Jaskier, his voice rising and falling in a way that would be incredibly pleasant if Jaskier wasn’t being forced to listen to it. He lets the music of it fall over him and ignores the words, smiling and laughing so he appears engaged. The good thing about growing up among nobility is that it makes a person very good at faking interest in conversations. 

The bar starts to empty out, and Jaskier still can’t leave. He’s fervently hoping this man isn’t staying at the inn as well, and will have to leave when they close the doors. The people still lingering are grouped tightly together in corners now, candles on the tables burning low. The air smells like beer and grease and candle ash.

Jaskier yawns in an exaggerated way and the man smiles—not just for Jaskier, but not bad, either. Jaskier is sleepy and drunk and there’s a hand running patterns across his arm and it’s really all become very pleasant again. Geralt doesn’t know what he’s missing, going to bed so early. 

“Shame you’re only passing through,” the man says. It’s really not, Jaskier thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “There’s a lovely spot just outside this inn, perhaps I could show you.”

Jaskier’s stomach clenches, then relaxes. It’s a suggestion, it’s a come on, but not an order. “You’ve been lovely, but I’d really better get to bed. My friend will have been waiting.”

The man frowns, but it’s momentary. “That witcher? I hear they sleep like the dead, unconcerned for the human dealings around them.”

It’s almost funny how quickly he dismisses the possibility that Jaskier might be referring to Geralt as his  _ friend _ euphemistically, like there’s no way Geralt could ever be traveling with Jaskier in  _ that _ way. It stings, even though it’s just from a stranger (maybe more because it’s from a stranger). 

“Aha, not mine, he’s probably waiting up just to tell me off for being irresponsible.” Jaskier is surprised he says it, and more surprised to realize he’s a little bit bitter that Geralt has left him alone for so long, like he really is unconcerned. 

“Come outside with me,” the man whispers, bringing his face close to Jaskier’s ear, pressing his fingers lightly against Jaskier’s stomach. 

That blanket feeling falls over Jaskier again. He’s not even opposed, not really, he just hates to be out of control, unable to assert his own wants, even if they might align with the order. He wants to say  _ No, but thanks,  _ and walk away. But he can’t, so he smiles tightly and says nothing. 

Jaskier follows him outside. Each step across the room until he passes the threshold feels heavy, propelled and resisted, like walking through deep mud. At least there’s a breeze outside, and the air smells nicer. 

Jaskier isn’t in the least surprised when the man leads him down along the alley beside the inn and backs him against the stone wall. He glances back up at the inn on instinct, looking for a light in a window, the glint of a sword, golden eyes,  _ something  _ to indicate that Geralt is both concerned and aware of his current circumstance. He doesn’t even know what window to look at, he doesn’t even know if their room has a window. Geralt is nowhere in sight. 

“You are gorgeous,” the man says, running his hands along Jaskier’s arms and then gently pressing one against his neck, his face. “And your voice is a dream.”

Jaskier melts into it a little bit. He does love the praise, and he gets so very little from Geralt, and since they’re mostly together, it means he gets very little in general. The man smells like sweat and beer, but it’s almost appealing; his hands are soft and his eyes are a normal human brown, and when he leans down towards Jaskier’s face, pressing Jaskier between him and the wall, Jaskier can feel his interest. It’s almost mutual. 

“Yes, I am very lucky in those regards,” Jaskier murmurs, uncertain if he wants to squirm towards the man or away from him. He _ mostly  _ wants to just go inside and sit in companionable silence with Geralt, but at the same time he really doesn’t want to be faced with the implicit rejection that comes with being with Geralt all the time. It’s hard to turn down an opportunity to be adored by someone else. 

“Kiss me,” the man says, while Jaskier is considering, and that’s that, then. 

It’s not a bad kiss—it’s warm and alcoholic and wet, and Jaskier likes the way the man towers over him. But it’s the feeling that comes with it. The  _ pull _ of the command, the  _ must, _ the way Jaskier can’t turn his head away even just to catch his breath. There are hands at his cheek, at his chest, at his waist, unfastening his doublet, and the bite of the stone wall against his back is unpleasant, and he just wants to breathe and think and make his own damn decisions. 

Jaskier presses against the man’s waist with his own hands, trying to create a tiny bit of distance, but the motion is misinterpreted and he’s only pushed back against the wall more forcefully. He can also see the glint of a dagger inside the man’s waistband at this close distance, which isn’t great, all things considered. He feels a sharp stab of fear, even as his body starts to betray him, excited by the close contact and the fact that it  _ has _ been at least a week since he’s been with anyone. 

“I really,” Jaskier pants, trying to continue the kisses, since he hasn’t been told to stop, “should be getting back. Not that you’re not an excellent kisser—oh, this is quite a nice fabric, what is this?—but—” The man leans in to kiss him directly again, his hands roving lower on Jaskier’s body. Jaskier tries to imbue his own voice with as much persuasion as he can, although the continued attempts to kiss him undermine it. “But I really can’t be doing this right now, the anticipation will have to last us until the next—oh.”

He breathes in sharply, his words cut off as the dagger he spied is suddenly unsheathed and pushing its point against Jaskier’s hip. Well, fuck. 

“That’s enough. You’re not going anywhere,” the man breathes, still pressing close, “I’m telling you to stay right here and don’t move.”

Jaskier stops protesting, stops moving almost entirely. He  _ stays _ . His pulse is racing, his body willing him to go, to  _ run _ , to get away from this asshole and his knife before something really terrible happens. The pressure of his flight response against the command is ferocious, it feels like he’s literally being torn apart. Jaskier groans and closes his eyes. He can vaguely feel the man continue to paw at his chest one-handed. 

“That’s right, just relax,” the man whispers. Jaskier is possibly going to throw up. 

If only he had been able to keep them inside, or nearer the door at least, so that he could catch someone’s eye. Jaskier doesn’t like to think of himself as less than self-sufficient, but it’s fairly plain that he’s not getting out of this situation without a little bruising at the very least, and he wishes he’d paid better attention to Geralt the last time they had one of their oh-so-fun  _ how to defend yourself because you’re a weak little human  _ talks. 

There’s a sound like a roar and the pressure of the knife point against Jaskier’s hip recedes. Jaskier opens one eye cautiously and sees a flash of white, sees the stranger’s knife fly across the paving stones, sees—

“Geralt!” he chokes out. 

Geralt turns to Jaskier and his eyes are glowing, his face curled into something fierce. Jaskier is so glad to see him and he wants to say so, feels the want burning in his chest, in his face. But then the stranger is rushing towards Geralt with his dagger and Geralt is turning away from Jaskier, pulling out his sword. 

The man is ferocious and quick, but Geralt is quicker, and it isn’t long before the dagger is knocked onto the ground, the man following quickly behind it. Geralt lands a punch that knocks him clean out, his head cracking against the stones as he hurtles onto the ground. There’s blood, Jaskier can see that, but it’s not Geralt’s, and it’s not his own, and that’s all that matters. 

“Can you come inside?” Geralt is looking at him, and Jaskier feels embarrassment creep across his skin even though he’s been far more undressed around Geralt before, and honestly been found in far more scandalous circumstances. Still. There’s something about being looked at so completely, with fierce concern. 

Jaskier pulls himself away from the wall, and finds he isn’t being held by anything anymore, his limbs respond to his own will—the stranger must be dead, if his commands have lost their weight. He can’t say he’s too sorry. In fact, fuck the asshole. 

“Yes, we should go inside,” Jaskier says. He’s surprised to hear his own voice shaking a little. 

Geralt’s looking far too openly concerned, and it’s unnerving. Jaskier is used to  _ vague _ concern, to the possibility that he might mean something to Geralt being constantly undermined by the absolute lack of anything upfront. Not to this. 

They walk into the inn and upstairs to the room. The downstairs is empty, but it still smells like lingering smoke and beer. Jaskier notices that he has a cut on his hand that’s bleeding, just a little bit. Not enough to scar, not enough for even a complaint, but it stands out, screaming red. 

The room is big enough, with a large bed and a small wash basin and a few rickety chairs in one corner. Geralt left candles burning down on the bedside table and windowsill, and Jaskier feels a small catch in his throat at the confirmation that Geralt has been awake for several hours waiting for him. Not that Geralt actually  _ sleeps _ , or not much that he can tell, but it wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier had caught him sitting contemplatively in the dark like an overgrown cat. 

Geralt starts shrugging off his clothes and armor. Jaskier turns away reluctantly and walks over to the basin and splashes some cold water on his face. It stings when it touches the cut on his hand, burns the skin of his cheeks, inflamed with alcohol and adrenaline. Jaskier lets the water drip off his skin back into the basin, not bothering to wipe it with a towel. This was close, this was too fucking close. If not for Geralt…he shudders. 

Jaskier can feel Geralt come up behind him, even though his footsteps are nearly silent. He wipes his sleeve uselessly across the remaining water on his face and turns into Geralt’s intense stare. It always catches him off guard when Geralt looks at him and only him like this; they’ve been traveling for years, but the blatant attention is infrequent enough that he could never get used to it. 

“Are you all right?” Geralt brings up a hand awkwardly to Jaskier’s chin and turns it side to side, looking for injuries. Jaskier can barely keep himself from leaning into the touch, even though he knows it’s perfunctory.

_ “ _ Yes, thanks to you,” Jaskier answers honestly. “It was touch and go there for a bit, I was sure I’d be crawling back here with my guts slit open if you hadn’t arrived all heroically.”

“You’d probably be dead in the alley if I hadn’t arrived when I did,” Geralt says, releasing his chin. Geralt studies the rest of him, his gaze lingering on Jaskier’s cut hand, and then turns away, walking over to the bags and returning only to drop a jar of salve and a length of linen into Jaskier’s uninjured hand.

The disappointment coils in Jaskier’s chest as Geralt walks away. “Right. Well, thank you, for that.”

He watches Geralt lie down on the bed, spreading himself across it, half undressed, not bothering to get underneath covers. Jaskier wants to ask  _ how _ Geralt knew to come out, how he got there so quickly, how he could be so certain that it wasn’t just another one of Jaskier’s entanglements. He wants to ask if Geralt was watching him, he wants to ask Geralt if  _ his _ stomach jumps when he touches Jaskier, or if it’s just Jaskier. 

Instead, he opens the jar of salve and wraps up his hand before undressing himself. His outer layers smell like the stranger, sour sweat and perfume, and Jaskier thinks he might have to burn them to avoid the association. He moves to the window, hanging his shirt over a chair, and he can feel Geralt watching him, although when he looks over to the bed, Geralt’s eyes are closed. Probably he’s just checking in to make sure Jaskier doesn’t have any secret injuries under his clothes. 

He wishes Geralt would talk to him. The quiet is too much, right now, when Jaskier is still caught up in the feelings of fear and helplessness. His hand burns, and it’s preventing him from regaining equilibrium.

“How did you know to come out?” Jaskier asks, resolving that filling the silence with his own voice is better than nothing. Also, he really would like to know.

Geralt looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “It’s a curse, right?” Jaskier doesn’t reply, isn’t sure  _ how _ to reply, but Geralt nods like he has. “I can see it on you, it has an…aura of sorts.”

Jaskier realizes his mouth is hanging open and closes it.  _ No one  _ knows, no one but his parents, and now he’s being told that it leaves a  _ fucking trace _ . Like people could be seeing it on him and he wouldn’t even know, like maybe it’s far less of a secret than he thought. 

“You haven’t—you haven’t  _ told _ anyone, have you?” He can’t actually imagine Geralt telling anyone  _ anything _ , at least of his own volition—Geralt gets annoyed if someone asks him for the time—but he has to be certain. He knows how precarious his life is, how much worse it could be if people knew. 

Geralt holds his gaze for a long moment. “No.”

Jaskier’s sigh of relief might be a little bit overdone, but the relief is genuine. If people knew, his life would be over—he’d have to stay inside, settle for a worthless life, the way his parents had wanted him to. He’d have to give up performing, and traveling, and following the road wherever it led him.  _ He’d have to give up Geralt _ , he barely lets himself think. He was already a risk, and he knew it, knew that someone could take advantage of Geralt by taking advantage of  _ him _ first; the fact that Geralt knew and still let him stay was…something he couldn’t think too hard about.

“You should relax,” Geralt says, and Jaskier realizes he’s been worrying his hands along with his thoughts a bit too emphatically, and his hands start to still. “That’s a suggestion.”

Jaskier smiles in spite of himself. He shouldn’t be surprised at the amendment, since he’s all too conscious that Geralt never gives him an order. Now that it’s suddenly hitting him that that can’t have been unintentional, he can’t imagine how he ever believed it might have been. 

“How long have you known?”

Geralt doesn’t have to think about it. “It’s hard to miss.”

“But how long have you  _ known _ ?”

“The first time I saw you play, you took a request. It was clear you and everyone else in the audience hated the song. It wasn’t a smart move, and you didn’t seem stupid. I knew.”

Jaskier tries to breathe. That had to have been just when they met. Geralt had  _ always _ known, and hadn’t said anything about it or let on that it was an issue in any way. He’d let Jaskier travel with him, knowing what a risk it was. That was…hard to reconcile with the way Geralt regarded him. Jaskier knows he, himself, would risk anything to stay with Geralt; he just can’t imagine that Geralt would risk a single hair to keep  _ him _ there. 

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, and while Jaskier had wanted conversation filling the space before, now he feels like everything Geralt says is knocking him over, and he can’t find his balance. 

“How is it fine?” Jaskier asks, his voice rising into a register that he’d really love to be able to utilize in his singing. “I have this…thing, this  _ curse  _ that means I have to follow all orders given to me by anyone, and you’re just going to tell me it’s  _ fine?!”  _

_ “ _ Yes.” 

Jaskier balks, at an unusual lack for words. He’d never even let himself imagine the day that someone would find out about him and here it is and it’s just... _ fine _ . What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, saying his name like a chastisement even as it makes Jaskier’s breath catch. “You’ve no serious injuries, and we’re leaving early. Consider going to sleep.”

Geralt closes his eyes, leaving Jaskier no room to say anything else. Just like that, the conversation’s over, and he can do what he likes. 

Sighing, he walks over to the other side of the bed and climbs in, pulling the covers over himself because he sleeps cooler than Geralt, and there’s no excuse here to complain until Geralt moves closer to keep him warm. He thinks he’ll be unable to sleep, his mind spinning around the entire evening, but he listens to Geralt’s steady breathing and eventually his own slows to match it. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you think you could keep up?”

Jaskier huffs in annoyance. Geralt is several paces ahead of him, climbing the stupid rocks on this literal mountainside like it’s easy, while Jaskier stumbles and catches his feet and struggles not to go careening over the side of the steep rock face to their right. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I going too slowly for you?” Jaskier calls out, just barely catching himself before he goes sprawling over another rock. “Did it ever occur to you, in your great witcherly wisdom, that this might be slightly difficult terrain for someone who did not attend a school named after a wild animal? Or possibly— _ possibly _ —do you think that maybe you could be actually helping me climb this fucking mountain instead of just calling back at me?”

Geralt turns around, eyebrow raised in a challenge. “It’s not a mountain.” But he waits. 

Jaskier scoffs. “Oh well, I didn’t know you were a topography expert now, too.” He reaches the point where Geralt is standing and pauses, leaning down to brace himself on a larger rock as he breathes heavily. Bringing the lute on his back was probably not the best idea. “We had to leave Roach behind, and if she can’t navigate it then it definitely qualifies as, at least, one of the smaller mountains.”

Geralt’s mouth quirks into a tiny smile, and Jaskier almost forgets that he’s actually quite annoyed with him right now. It’s been a few months since that night in the tavern, since Geralt swooped in to save him and revealed that he had always known about the curse. Jaskier had been afraid, then, that everything would change, that Geralt would handle him more as if he were made of glass, instead of flesh and blood. But nothing had changed. They’d gone on basically the same as before, and if anything, Geralt seemed more amenable to letting Jaskier tag along with him. 

It was odd, but generally good. Except for right now, when Jaskier was learning that energetic sex and instrumentals did not actually make a person very fit for climbing mountains. 

“I said I had to find a harpy nest,” Geralt says, “and you insisted on coming with. Did you think they nested on the ground?”

He turns away again and Jaskier scrambles to follow quickly. “Well, excuse me for not being an expert, as most people obviously are, on harpies and where they nest.” 

Jaskier can hear Geralt laugh at that before he forgets not to react, which makes Jaskier surge with pride. Anything he can tease out of Geralt, any smile or laugh or look, makes him feel like he’s found something he’s been missing the rest of his life. Jaskier had thought that this thing he feels would diminish over time, but instead it seems to be only growing, like a flame. 

Jaskier climbs, trying not to look down at the shape of Roach getting smaller and smaller until she’s a horse the size of an ant. Jaskier is absolutely not afraid of heights, he’s been in some quite tall towers in his life and he has  _ never _ been afraid of heights; but then again, he’s never been in a palace tower that felt quite as precarious as the side of this mountain. At least the scrambling upward provides him a rather nice view of Geralt’s ass, even if it is attached to a face that seems intent on glaring at him right now. 

They’re approaching a ridge near the top when Geralt stops, standing still to listen and then putting his hand near the ground, tracking. Jaskier hates that he can’t fill songs with this part, the part of Geralt’s work that isn’t exciting but deliberate—it’s impressive in it’s own way, and Jaskier likes to watch it, likes to watch Geralt concentrate. 

“We’re close,” Geralt murmurs. “I’ll need to move quickly, but there’s not many adults, that I can tell, so it may be a short fight.” 

He points upwards, above the ridge, and Jaskier sees some dark shapes circling in the sky. They‘re huge, much larger than normal birds, which shouldn’t be a surprise, and Jaskier can hear their cries from where he’s standing. 

Geralt doesn’t tell him to stay still, he doesn’t tell him not to follow, but Jaskier slows his own progress, so he’s only close enough to see clearly. He wants to write about this, of course, but he can see the things diving at Geralt’s head, and he isn’t keen on becoming a secondary target. He really ought to invest in a helmet or something, for situations like this. 

Jaskier knows that it’s dangerous traveling with Geralt, but he doesn’t let that bother him. For him, staying in one place with lots of people around him is more dangerous. People always want something, people are always looking for openings to manipulate, to gain on the subjugation of others—especially the upper classes, among whom Jaskier by all rights should exist—and it’s far too easy to manipulate Jaskier. If Geralt could see his curse so clearly, others would certainly figure it out, too—all they’d need was a mage who could see it, or barring that, to pay enough attention that it would become obvious. No, Jaskier is much safer out here in the wild, among the monsters with Geralt. 

Geralt swings his sword and shoots off a sign at one of the beasts, and it crumples into a heap on the ground. Jaskier does not cheer, because he has been asked not to—apparently it’s distracting—but he does whoop internally. 

The fight is quick, a few well-aimed sword hits and a short scuffle and then Geralt is standing on top of the ridge by himself, with the harpies strewn around him like giant mounds of feathers. Geralt leans down to take a trophy as proof the job is done, and then climbs over to the nest. Jaskier wonders if harpies lay eggs, watches as Geralt hovers over it, searching, and then scoops something out. Jaskier wonders if harpy eggs are edible. 

Geralt sets a quick fire to whatever remains in the nest and watches it burn. Seeing as he’s standing still instead of continuing to fight, Jaskier decides it’s probably safe and starts scrambling upwards again to meet him. He can see as he gets closer, an open wound on Geralt’s shoulder that he’s certain Geralt will refer to as a scratch, and that he’s holding what’s probably the head of a harpy in his other hand. 

“Excellent work!” Jaskier calls out, pausing. “Almost too easy, at least it looked that way from here. Not great fodder for songs,” he shrugs, “but I’ll embellish some.” 

Geralt frowns. He’s asked Jaskier not to sing about some things—especially when Jaskier gets drunk and starts waxing poetic about Geralt’s physical attributes—but he’s never told Jaskier explicitly not to embellish, and Jaskier doesn’t expect that to start now. 

“Hardly epic material,” he grunts. The flames reflect off the silver studs on his armor.

“Let me be the judge of that, eh? Any chance you could hold that a little higher?” Jaskier asks, “Maybe let me see the beast a little clearer? For poetic description reasons?”

“You’re close enough,” Geralt replies, but he does hold it up slightly, although his eyes are still on the fire and not on Jaskier.

Typical witcher, Jaskier thinks, picking across the rocks, forgetting that not everyone has superior eyesight and prior knowledge of monster appearances. He’s nearly at the top now, which blessedly evens out to a platform instead of unstable piles of rock. 

It would be hard for Jaskier to accurately say what happens next. Jaskier kicks a little rock that makes a loud sound as it echoes over the side of the ridge. Geralt suddenly turns, suddenly looks at Jaskier, his eyes black and catching on Jaskier with uncommon intensity. Jaskier sees the harpy head clearly for the first time, and even though he’s used to seeing monsters, that combined with Geralt’s gaze and the smoke from the fire and the blood splashed across the rocks and seeping out of Geralt’s already healing wound is overwhelming. There’s a cry through the sky, piercing and sad—maybe Geralt missed one of the monsters. Jaskier looks up and loses his footing.

It happens too quickly. Jaskier’s foot slips against the rocks, and he scrabbles to hold on before he falls, his fingers unable to find purchase in the rocks this high, worn smoother by weather and rain. He has the presence of mind to call out Geralt’s name as he slips, but he’s not quite close enough for it to be enough. The cry echoes through the sky again, and Jaskier has time to think,  _ well the monster’s not dead, so that’s it for me  _ before he hits his head on a rock and the world gets fuzzy. 

He can still see enough around himself to see something dive at Geralt, and to see Geralt roll out of the way. Jaskier grasps at the air as he falls, as he tumbles back the way he came, rocks hitting and digging at him, and breaking the speed of his fall even as they urge it on. His fingers catch on one, and he curls them around it fiercely, jolting to a stop. Jaskier swings his legs, trying to get back up to his feet, but he can’t find purchase. His head hurts, the terrain spinning around him, and he can feel his palms getting sweaty, his grip slipping. 

A shadow looms over Jaskier, and he wonders if the monster has sighted him, if it somehow bested Geralt and is coming for him now, if the last thing he’ll ever see will be this fucking mountain. 

Instead, he feels hands on his wrists, pulling him upwards. He lets himself be pulled, tries swinging his legs under himself again to help himself get upright. 

“Could you try to not swing your legs like a fucking windmill, maybe?” Geralt’s voice is close, very close, and not at all like a monster’s. 

Jaskier stops moving his legs, lets himself hang while Geralt pulls him up. Somewhere along the way, his eyes close, and he feels with relief when he’s back on something solid. His hands sting, and he feels like someone is playing a very loud insistent drum inside of his skull, but otherwise he seems to be in one piece. 

“Are you all right?” Geralt asks gruffly in his ear. Geralt smells like armor polish and smoke and blood and it makes Jaskier sigh. 

Jaskier opens his eyes. He’s effectively in Geralt’s lap, which is not at all a place he’s unhappy about being, although it would be better if he didn’t have a raging headache and his hands didn’t feel like shredded cloth. Geralt is looking at him with a mixture of anger and concern, his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Jaskier replies, not intentionally vague. Geralt’s expression narrows in a way that Jaskier can’t read, so he adds, “I lost my balance.”

“No shit.” Geralt stands up slowly, making sure Jaskier can find his footing before letting go of his shoulders. 

Jaskier can stand, but he still feels dizzy from hitting his head. Unfortunately, Geralt is already moving away, dragging his trophy behind him. Jaskier blinks, trying to clear away the haze, but it’s persistent. He doesn’t really want to mention it, because he knows that complaining about injuries sustained while following Geralt on a hunt he wasn’t entirely invited on isn’t the best idea if he wants to be allowed to follow along on the next one, which he very much does. 

Jaskier takes a cautious step forward and clears his throat in a way he hopes is casual. “One of those potions you’re always carrying around doesn’t happen to help with head injuries, does it?”

Geralt stops walking and turns back to Jaskier, his face set in that too familiar mixture of concern and annoyance. “Are you hurt?” 

“No,” Jaskier says, taking a confident step that turns into a stumble as everything spins. “Well, yes, maybe a bit.”

Geralt sighs. “You can’t—,” he cuts himself off and starts again. “I need to ask you to try to be more careful. You almost fell over the ledge.”

Jaskier frowns, but he follows Geralt’s gaze and realizes that the rock he’d caught onto, obvious because of the scratches from his nails, was indeed one of the ones right next to the part of the climb where one wall became a sheer drop. No wonder he hadn’t been able to find purchase with his feet. Fuck. 

It’s almost impossible to focus on how he almost actually just died there, though, when his chest is bursting with gratitude for Geralt’s careful phrasing. How easy would it have been for him to order care, to order Jaskier to stay behind—but he didn’t. Because he doesn’t give Jaskier commands, he only asks. Jaskier feels like he could float down the mountain, light with the sense that Geralt at least cares enough about him to offer him that most important respect, even if it’s not what Jaskier wishes he felt towards him. It’s  _ something _ . 

Jaskier tries to think of what to say, but his distraction mixed with the spinning of the world around him is making it difficult to form words. He’s afraid that he’ll accidentally say something inappropriate if he tries to thank Geralt for saving him, and he really doesn’t want to be left concussed on a mountain. 

“Here,” Geralt says, taking another step towards Jaskier with a hand outstretched. “I can carry you if you’d like.”

Jaskier nods. Geralt cautiously unstraps the lute from Jaskier’s back and swings it over his own shoulder, then sweeps Jaskier up into his arms. This is…practical. This is absolutely the most practical way to help someone move from one place to another, and nothing more. 

Except that even with his brain foggy, Jaskier can feel the muscles in Geralt’s arms and chest move as he walks. Jaskier could, if he wanted, if he was braver or stupider, nuzzle into Geralt’s neck easily—he doesn’t do it, but oh, how he imagines. He’s vaguely aware that the decapitated head of a harpy is being held in the same hand pressed against his knees, but he tries not to think about that. 

Geralt carries him all the way down the mountain and sets him down in a nearby glade, near where they’d left Roach tied, happily eating grass. He leans Jaskier against a tree trunk, and Jaskier is immensely grateful for the support of something firm that he doesn’t secretly want to jump. 

He’s also grateful that he can sit and watch Geralt set up the few things it takes for them to call it a camp without feeling like he’s supposed to be helping. Jaskier does help, sometimes, although he usually just plays something and excuses it by telling Geralt that someone has to set the right mood, to keep it all civilized. He’s not about to embarrass himself by trying to sing right now, though, so he just watches, quietly, as Geralt makes a fire and sets out their bedrolls. 

“Here.” Geralt is crouched low near where Jaskier is sitting on the ground, holding out a piece of dried meat. Jaskier blinks, and takes it. He must have fallen asleep, but his head feels a bit clearer, although it still hurts like a motherfucker. 

“Thanks.” Jaskier chews it thoughtfully, watching Geralt do the same. He should thank him, probably, both for saving him and for not being a complete ass about having to. But, possibly phrased in a more delicate way. “For the food, obviously, but also for the whole saving my life before I fell off a mountain thing. I know that must not have been the way you wanted to end your triumphant slaughter of the bird…things.”

“We can go back to town tomorrow,” Geralt says, blowing past Jaskier’s awkward expression of gratitude. Jaskier isn’t sure he wants to just let it go like that. He’s gotten minor injuries before, of course, but not quite as near-permanent as almost falling off a cliff.

“Right, town, yes. But, ah—did you not hear me say thank you?”

Geralt hums in his throat instead of replying. He’s considering Jaskier carefully, as though looking for something. “I should check your head, you were bleeding before.” 

Jaskier is about to protest that that’s not strictly necessary, as he thinks he’d be able to tell if he was still bleeding from his head a worrisome amount, but he isn’t quick enough. Geralt leans forward and brushes his hand through Jaskier’s hair, feeling closely along his scalp, checking for injury. It brings Geralt’s face very, very close to his. Jaskier’s reply gets caught in his throat. 

“Seems better,” Geralt says quietly, his hand still entangled in Jaskier’s hair. “No fresh blood, at least.” 

“Oh, good, no fresh blood is good,” Jaskier replies weakly. He feels weirdly subdued, something like anticipation swirling in his gut, almost shaky with it. There’s nothing happening though, it must just be the aftereffects of hitting his head, of coming down from the adrenaline of falling; it must be that, even though he suspects it’s also the nearness of Geralt, the feel of his touch and the sense of being fully held under his concentration. Which is ridiculous anyway, since Geralt is barely touching him, and then only to check for blood. 

Jaskier inhales, trying to pull himself together, reminding himself not to be ridiculous. Geralt can hear things like changes in pulse, can sense all of the human signs of wanting; Jaskier has to keep himself controlled, no matter how much he wants. 

Geralt nods to himself, apparently satisfied with his examination. He pulls his hand from beneath Jaskier’s hair, but lets it linger on his neck, thoughtfully. Jaskier can’t tell what part of him Geralt is looking at—maybe he’s not looking at Jaskier at all, but he feels caught under the witcher’s gaze. Jaskier is utterly failing at controlling his pulse. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says again. Maybe it’ll stick this time. 

“It’ll be better thanks if you can avoid falling like that again,” Geralt murmurs. His hand is still on Jaskier’s neck. When he speaks it’s quieter, still, almost as if he’s talking to himself, but his eyes flit up to meet Jaskier’s: “I don’t like it when you’re in danger.”

Jaskier swallows. “Okay,” he agrees, uncertain of how he can really agree to that. He’s aware that it could again be a command, and he’s aware once again that it is not one. 

The air around them feels charged, suddenly. It’s like the way Jaskier’s body feels—taut with anticipation, warm with feelings, breathless—has transferred to the world around them, like the whole forest is holding its breath. Jaskier makes a mental note to write that down. And then Geralt is leaning the distance between them, and kissing him. 

Jaskier has imagined kissing Geralt. He’s imagined the feel of it, he’s imagined the way Geralt must taste, he’s imagined the way his own body will respond. The real thing is better than anything he could have imagined. It’s soft, softer than he would have thought Geralt capable— Geralt’s lips are warm and chapped, but  _ kind _ , and he presses them to Jaskier’s lightly, as though he’s not certain Jaskier will want it. Gods, does Jaskier want it. 

He kisses back, fiercely, like a starving man. Geralt smells like he always does, like leather polish and sweat and something more metallic underneath, like wild growing herbs. His hand is firm on Jaskier’s neck, his thumb ghosting over Jaskier’s pulse point. It’s chaste, but Jaskier can feel the strength behind it, the wave of whatever Geralt’s holding back. 

It lasts long enough that Jaskier gets emboldened, that he risks opening his mouth, running his tongue along Geralt’s lips, trying to deepen the kiss. And miraculously, Geralt lets him. 

The kiss grows more intense, their tongues clashing, exploring. Geralt’s pulse doesn’t race the way Jaskier’s does, his breathing doesn’t get heavier like Jaskier’s, he doesn’t let out the same little surprised sound of pleasure somewhere between a moan and a sigh; but Geralt kisses Jaskier like he means it, like he wants it, and his other hand comes up from the ground, wrapping around Jaskier’s knee, like he needs to hold onto something to keep himself steady. 

And then, too soon, as quickly as it started, Geralt is pulling away. He gives Jaskier a brief smile, one that seems almost sad, and then he’s walking towards the fire, turning his back to Jaskier. Jaskier watches him kick out the fire and climb into a bedroll. Witchers don’t really sleep, but Geralt makes a big show of getting in bed, of moving away and lying down and covering himself, his back turned to Jaskier. 

“Good night, Jaskier,” he says quietly, and Jaskier could swear there was  _ some  _ emotion tinging his words. If only he could figure out which one. 

Jaskier leans against his tree. He feels like he’s in shock. What the fuck just happened? Is it even possible that Geralt actually just kissed him, or is he having some sort of head wound induced hallucination? Not that Jaskier thinks he isn’t good enough for Geralt, or anything, but it’s just…it’s  _ Geralt. _

Jaskier feels like he’s missed something, possibly something big, something he should have grasped before it slipped through his fingers. He wants to go back in time to a few minutes ago, to before Geralt pulled away, to the moment where he should have wrapped his fingers in Geralt’s shirt and pulled him closer and whispered things he’s been afraid to say. 

If only Jaskier had the means to time travel.

“Good night, Geralt,” he says quietly. He knows Geralt hears, but he doesn’t react. 

Jaskier sits against the tree for a while longer, watching the last ashes of the fire burn out. Then he crawls over to his own bedroll and lies down. His feeling of misgiving only increases when he sees that Geralt’s eyes are open, and Jaskier opens his mouth to say something, but Geralt abruptly closes his eyes, his breathing slowing. Jaskier closes his eyes and tries to sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: this chapter has a monster fight and some injury, although not very explicitly described.

It’s been weeks since the kiss. Jaskier lost track of how many weeks, but he knows it’s been many—they’ve been through at least fifteen towns since then, and more than twice that number of monsters.

At first, Jaskier assumed he should just be giving him some time, that Geralt would talk about it when he was ready, that it would be weirder to bring it up. He eventually realized that this strategy would only have worked if Geralt were someone radically different, but by then it had been long enough that Jaskier felt strange bringing it up. 

The morning after the kiss, Geralt had acted like nothing happened, packing up the camp while Jaskier brushed some tangles out of Roach’s mane, both of them saying little. Geralt had a much more perfunctory second look at Jaskier’s minor head wound, and proclaimed him fine after barely a single touch, stepping away from Jaskier apprehensively. 

Then there was the trouble in the town—the usual bullshit about wanting to renege on Geralt’s payment—resulting in a chase into the forest, which then involved quite a bit of creative direction-finding on Geralt’s part to lead them to a suitable area in which to camp. And with all of the excitement, they’d slipped into their respective beds with annoyance and exhaustion and absolutely no thought of kissing. Well, Jaskier thought about it, but he wasn’t awake long enough to say anything.

Which is why they are now, weeks later, hunting another monster, having said nothing and done nothing and gone mostly back to normal. Except that Jaskier can’t forget the way it felt when Geralt kissed him, and he can’t at all understand how to get it to happen again. 

Geralt is kneeling on the all too muddy ground, in some sort of trance that Jaskier doesn’t entirely understand, but is apparently necessary. It’s incredibly boring to sit and wait, especially since they haven’t fought anything notable in a while, and it’s hard to write songs about walking and camping that don’t veer too far into the topics Jaskier isn’t sure he can write about. Like how he’s in love with Geralt. 

He walks over to Geralt and waves a hand in front of his face. Geralt doesn’t move. Jaskier is  _ antsy _ . 

“Any time you’re ready to move, just let me know. No rush, obviously, it’s not like I’m uncomfortable being entirely out of coin and almost out of food and sitting in what amounts to a pile of mud in the middle of the forest like a…sitting swan or something.”

“Sitting duck, you mean,” Geralt mutters, his eyes still closed.

Jaskier scoffs. “Speak for yourself. I rather fancy being a swan, myself.”

He can feel Geralt’s eyes roll behind his eyelids. It’s not an attractive look. Jaskier wants to kiss him very badly. 

“Besides, what exactly are we waiting for? I thought we had an exciting monster to hunt?”

Geralt sighs and opens his eyes. “Powerful does not equate exciting. Can’t you occupy yourself with plucking or tuning or whatever it is that you do?”

Jaskier picks up his lute, fingering the strings absently, and shrugs. “I need some new material to work from and—hey, it  _ is _ in tune!”

Geralt smiles, just a little, the kind that’s meant only for Jaskier. Jaskier’s heart sings. 

It’s another hour or so before Geralt stands up, by which point Jaskier has found an excellent rock to sit on and has mostly given up on trying to move Geralt ahead of his own timeline. The sun is nearly set, the sky painted pink and gold. Jaskier is trying to work the sunset into a song, something pastoral that he knows will appeal to some of the nobles he visits, the ones who wouldn’t last a moment out in nature on their own. Those crowds always love a nature song. 

“Isn’t the sunset a little cliche?” Geralt asks, coming up behind him and rifling through his pack, lying on the ground near Jaskier’s feet. 

Jaskier scowls, making a note before he forgets it. “You wouldn’t know a good lyric if it hit you in the head.”

“Hm.” 

Jaskier is incredibly conscious of Geralt’s proximity to him, of their near  _ constant _ proximity. Geralt pulls a few bottles out of one of the bags and moves away to another pack, slightly farther from Jaskier. Jaskier’s muscles relax and tighten at the same time—ever since the kiss, it hurts to be close and it hurts to be far away, which is all just lovely, absolutely ideal, really. 

“Ready to go, then?” Jaskier asks as Geralt swallows one of the potions, tucks the rest into his pocket, and straps his swords to his back. 

“ _ I’m _ ready,” Geralt says pointedly. Pointed, but still not a command. Jaskier beams. 

“Excellent. My legs were beginning to cramp,” Jaskier says nonchalantly, like he doesn’t know what Geralt means. 

The thing is, he’s not incredibly anxious to go into battle with something even  _ Geralt _ will admit is in the category of notably powerful, but he needs material, and Geralt has been, if possible, even less talkative lately. So he needs material he can see firsthand, and he’s also glad for the chance to actually do something; wandering across the countryside leaves very little time for more recreational activities, which means Jaskier is stuck with a hell of a lot of pent-up energy. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and there’s enough emphasis that Jaskier almost sits back down, his body preparing to react to a command. “It’s going to be dangerous. Maybe even dangerous for me.”

“Even more reason for me to come along, too.” He’s being difficult, and he knows that, but he also knows that he wants to leave the campsite, and that Geralt isn’t going to directly tell him not to.

Geralt glares. “Jaskier, I would like to go alone.” 

Jaskier keeps his steady smile. “Well, let’s get going then.”

He’s pleased when Geralt doesn’t argue further, although he sort of suspects that Geralt is just working out better phrasing in his head, and hasn’t actually given in. 

They creep through the forest, Geralt moving very quietly and quickly and Jaskier following at a brisk but louder pace. He can’t help it if the plants and branches seem especially attracted to the fabrics he’s wearing, although he doesn’t get caught. He’s actually quite good at sneaking around places, but most of his practice happened in cities, and the skills for treading softly across paved streets doesn’t entirely apply to a forest that seems intent on nothing but tripping him up. 

After a while, Geralt turns back to him and puts a finger to his lips. 

Jaskier catches up and tries to look past the wall of Geralt’s body. “What is it? Did you find it? I can’t see…”

Geralt slams his body against Jaskier’s, nearly knocking Jaskier off balance as he presses him back against a tree trunk. Geralt claps his hand over Jaskier’s mouth. A roar echoes through the forest, seeming to shake the very ground beneath their feet. 

Jaskier is afraid, of course he is, of course anyone hearing that would be. But the fear sinks behind the feeling of Geralt’s hand over his mouth, of Geralt’s body pressing him back against the tree. It’s almost unbearably arousing, and Jaskier tries to focus on the monster and the battle and the inevitably good song it will make, instead of how much he wants to lick Geralt’s hand. 

Geralt’s free hand pulls one of the remaining potion vials out of his pocket and he uncorks it with his teeth, swallowing the contents. Jaskier shudders. He wonders if this is Geralt’s new plan, to just be so incredibly alluring that Jaskier dies of wanting before the battle starts. 

Or possibly, it’s just that Jaskier has both bad taste and very, very bad timing. 

“It’s a Leshen, and it can hear you talk,” Geralt says quietly. “It knows we’re here.” 

“Got it,” Jaskier says in a muffled whisper, trying to ignore the way his lips feel moving against Geralt’s slightly looser grip over his mouth. “Quiet as a mouse.”

“Will you remain here, by this tree until it’s safe?” Geralt asks. His eyes are turning the unnatural black that goes with the potion and he sounds so sincere, it almost hurts Jaskier not to run his hands somewhere along Geralt’s body. Jaskier leans back, pressing his hands hard against the tree to avoid lunging forward, and nods. 

“Good,” Geralt whispers, and then his hand is gone and he’s running away from Jaskier, and towards the sounds of the monster. 

To his credit, Jaskier does stay at the tree for a while. He leans back and tries to focus on the low bellowing of the monster, on the way the leaves seem to rustle in time with its cries, on how the forest comes alive with the sound. He listens for Geralt, for the whoosh of silver through the air, for the sounds of running and jumping and fighting. He can imagine how the fight is going, just from the sounds.

And then he hears something different. It’s a cry, not the bellowing noise of the Leshen, or of any other creature; a cry that rings familiar in Jaskier’s ears. It’s Geralt, and something must be wrong. 

Jaskier pushes away from the tree without even consciously thinking about it as he hears another grunting cry. It’s definitely Geralt, and even Jaskier can tell that it’s not a good sound, it’s not the sound of winning. 

Jaskier’s feet thump across the ground, flying over the roots that would have tripped him before, his feet finding the path out of desperation alone. He runs towards the sounds of the battle, his hand going automatically to a small knife he’d stolen out of Geralt’s pack earlier. It’s not enough to do that much, but since he’s not actually formally trained in anything but fencing, he’s not sure the tool would make a difference. He’s going to do whatever he can though, if Geralt’s in trouble. 

He runs into a clearing that looks like it wasn’t a clearing minutes before. There are trees fallen on their sides, and Jaskier watches as Geralt swings wildly and makes a dent in one that’s still standing. It takes Jaskier a moment to focus on the monster, and when he does, his knees nearly give out. It’s huge, tall as most of the trees, its teeth visible in its jaws as it roars, its eyes glowing evilly, its horned head and clawed hands slashing through the air. It moves like darkness, like shadow through trees, like the echoes of a terrible fire as it lays chase to Geralt.

Geralt, who is fighting, but bleeding visibly. He’s also using the wrong hand for his sword, which indicates another wound. The Leshen strikes out and Geralt throws up a sign, shielding himself for a moment. Jaskier can barely look away. He’s never seen Geralt fight like this, not really, he’s only seen him in battles where he had the obvious upper hand. It’s terrifying, but Geralt is mesmerizing. He looks, for the first time really since Jaskier has known him, extremely inhuman. 

Then Jaskier notices the wolves. 

They seem to come out of nowhere, leaping at Geralt, distracting him from the much more powerful foe. Jaskier isn’t sure what happens next. He knows that Geralt wanted him to stay behind, all but told him to do so, but he watches and it looks like Geralt might be losing and there is no possible way that Jaskier is going to stand back and let that happen. He might not be a witcher, but he’s not weak, and he can certainly take on a few overgrown dogs. He rushes into the fray. 

It’s a blur. Jaskier leaps and ducks and slashes. He’s not sure he’s doing anything, really, until one of the animals falls at his feet with a whine and it’s like a fever breaks. Everything becomes clearer, and he runs to the next beast, swinging the knife around, unpracticed but still sharp, his motions quick from practice on his lute, his feet sure from walking across the Continent with Geralt. 

Another wolf falls, and Jaskier lets out his own triumphant sound, small but fierce. Geralt turns around, abruptly, sees Jaskier, and bares his teeth. Jaskier ignores him. His doublet gets caught by teeth, and they rip clean through the expensive fabric. He can feel where claws are tearing superficially at his arms and legs. None of it matters. He’s winning, in some small way, and giving Geralt the ability to focus, and it’s all going to make a spectacular song. 

His miscalculation is that he assumes the Leshen will ignore him in favor of Geralt, abandoning the weaker prey to the less capable animals. Except he’s proving himself less weak than he appears with every second. 

“Jaskier!”

Geralt’s voice rings out, and Jaskier turns away from the last wolf’s body to see why Geralt is yelling at him. He turns around, his knife held down ineffectually, and all he sees is Geralt’s face—his black eyes staring straight into Jaskier, his lips parted in a yell, his face a mask of intense focus and alarm. 

Then Jaskier sees a flash of black, and after that comes the pain. It starts in his shoulder, he’s sure enough about that, but the pain spreads like fire, ripping through his chest and stomach. His eyes clench shut against it, and his head starts to spin. He thinks he might vomit, or maybe faint; he tries to shout at Geralt but his voice makes no sound, or maybe he is yelling and he just can’t hear it. 

Jaskier lashes out with the knife. He can’t even see the beast, but he can hear it, he can smell the combination of ashes and dirt and sour smoke pouring off it. His knife hits something and he pulls it back and stabs out again, hoping he’s helping in some way, even if it’s just by distracting it. Jaskier can feel something wet and viscous and warm slide down his cheek, down his chest, and the pain shooting through him increases. 

This is it, Jaskier thinks, this is the end. He hopes that Geralt will escape. He hopes that Geralt will kill the monster and tell some other bard the story, immortalizing Jaskier in song if not in actual deed. He hopes that Geralt will think of him sometimes, after this. 

He feels himself slam into something, his back arching against the pain, and then a roar like a scream echoes through the air. The scream dies out, and the air is suddenly calm. 

Jaskier realizes he’s been squeezing his eyes closed, and he tentatively opens them. He can see the body of the Leshen slumped across the ground in front of him, although the world seems too bright, and not quite in focus. He can feel the sharp pain still in his chest and a duller one across his back. His right hand feels wet and like it might be broken; he’s not holding onto the knife anymore. Every breath he takes feels like it’s being dragged through a cheese grater. 

He can’t see Geralt, either, and panic floods through him at the thought that Geralt might have perished with the monster. He calls out Geralt’s name, quietly and hoarsely. Jaskier feels more than sees when Geralt bends down to the ground beside him. 

“Jaskier? Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice sounds panicked and thick. Jaskier turns his head to the side so he can see him. Geralt’s face is still contorted, affected by the potions, but his eyes are focused entirely on Jaskier, and his brow is furrowed in concern. 

“I’m okay,” Jaskier says, even as he suspects he really, really isn’t.

Geralt sighs and mutters something that sounds to Jaskier almost like he’s thanking one of the gods, except Geralt isn’t religious, so he must have misheard. 

“Did you see?” Jaskier rasps, “I was amazing out there.”

“That was incredibly stupid,” Geralt says, but he still sounds panicked, and almost tender. “You could have died.”

“I distracted it for you.” Jaskier coughs. “Heroically.”

“You could have  _ died, _ ” Geralt repeats, his voice thick with…Jaskier would have said emotion, but it’s probably just an aftereffect of the potion. Still, Geralt could be yelling at him, and instead he’s cradling Jaskier’s head in his hands and speaking thickly. Jaskier really does love him. 

“But I heroically didn’t,” Jaskier says, as his body is wracked with coughs again. 

“Fuck. We need to get you help,” Geralt replies, and Jaskier feels himself being lifted. 

It hurts, everything hurts, and he thinks he might be yelling, but Geralt doesn’t chastise him. He can feel the firm pressure of Geralt’s hands, of his chest as he cradles Jaskier there. Jaskier has just enough time to reflect that he likes it, even though this time Geralt smells like gore and dirt, this still feels like  _ something _ . Then he loses consciousness. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings in the endnote

Jaskier comes to slowly. Everything still hurts, that’s the first thing he notices—he can breathe almost normally, although it still hurts in his chest when he does, and the rest of him feels raw and bruised. The second thing he notices is that they are absolutely not in the forest anymore, which is what he was expecting. Instead of lying on dirt, he’s on a low cot, and instead of the sky above him, he can see the rippling material of a tent. 

“Geralt?” he asks quietly, surprised when his voice sounds hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in a while. He blinks; how long has he been out? 

Then Geralt appears above him, and Jaskier forgets all of his pain for a single blissful moment, until he has to breathe again. Geralt looks hesitant; he reaches out a hand as if to touch it to Jaskier’s face, then seems to change his mind and pulls it back. Jaskier really wishes he wouldn’t have. 

“You’re awake,” Geralt says, studying him closely. Jaskier fleetingly wonders if he’s going to get kissed again, and his heart flutters with the thought. 

Instead, he reaches over Jaskier and retrieves a cup of water, which he presses to Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier sips it gratefully—he’s never appreciated water, how cool and sweet and clean it tastes. He reaches up a hand unsteadily to hold the cup himself, but Geralt doesn’t let go, letting Jaskier instead grasp loosely around his own hand, their fingers almost entwined.

“You’ve been out for days,” Geralt says conversationally, but there’s something behind it, something detached that makes Jaskier worried as hell. 

“Was it so bad?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt smiles, but the edges of it seem sad. “Bad enough. I think Roach resented me a little for making her run so fast, but she would have been angrier if I’d let you die.”

_ Right. Roach would have been angry _ . “Thank you. For not letting me die,” Jaskier says, “Although I  _ did _ save you, heroically I might add, so you owed me.” 

“What you did was foolish and reckless,” Geralt replies, his voice strained. “I’ll admit you did help…a bit. But it was unnecessary. You should be glad the injuries aren’t worse.”

Jaskier beams, ignoring all of it except the part where Geralt actually admitted he was helpful. That feels meaningful. He wants to hug Geralt, he wants to try to kiss him again. Jaskier struggles to sit up, but the pain thrashes through him and he falls back to the cot. Maybe not yet. 

Geralt sighs and deposits the cup on the table, picking up a vial instead. “This will help you sleep again, help you fully heal.” Geralt tips some of the liquid from the vial into Jaskier’s mouth. 

It burns, and then Jaskier feels all of his muscles start to relax, like warmth flowing down his body from his throat. It’s really very pleasant, and it does make him feel very sleepy.

“I’d do it again,” Jaskier says as the room starts to get murky and he lets his eyes close, “in an instant. I’d do anything for you.” He wishes he could stay awake to hear Geralt’s response, but he can’t fight the sleep and passes out again. 

The next time he opens his eyes, Jaskier feels much better. He’s stiff, and there’s still some residual pain lingering in his chest, but he doesn’t feel like he has one foot in the grave anymore. He can see clearly around him now, enough to tell that he’s in some kind of healers’ tent, other sick people scattered around him on cots that must be similar to his. 

He sits up slowly. He  _ can _ sit, which is an improvement. He flexes his hands, checking for injuries to his fingers or knuckles or wrists—anything that might impair his future performing abilities—but he can’t find anything more than a few scratches. In fact, apart from the ache in his chest, he can’t identify any other lingering injuries. He can vividly remember things tearing and opening and bleeding while he tried to pretend he could fight back against a monster, so whatever healing they’ve done here must have been magic. Jaskier swells with gratitude. 

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” a sharp-looking woman says suddenly, coming over to where he sits. “Lie back down.”

Jaskier sighs as the blanket of her words falls over him, pressing him back down on the cot. His stomach twists, and he presses his hands flat against the cot, trying to ground himself. He can’t stay here forever, not if he’s well enough to leave, so he can only hope that someone will change the order. Or he’ll lie on this cot indefinitely. 

An hour or two passes, the time melting together as Jaskier can’t do anything but lie on his cot, trying vainly to write in his head until he gives up and starts counting the number of stitches in the roof of the tent above him. Finally, the woman comes by with a small plate of bread and water and tells him sternly to sit and eat. 

He does, although the weight of it being an order makes it somewhat unpleasant, despite how hungry he feels. Once he’s eaten, the woman takes the plate and runs her hand carefully along his chest, feeling out a scar that he hadn’t even noticed. 

“Doesn’t seem inflamed, or infected,” she says matter-of-factly. 

“Do you think this will make me appear more manly, or just alluringly damaged?” Jaskier replies, aiming for humor. 

Her replying glare tells him he’s missed that mark by quite a lot. “You can leave now.”

Jaskier does so happily. He’s a little wobbly on his feet, but he does feel generally like himself. It’s wonderful to be back outside, breathing fresh air that doesn’t hurt as it enters his lungs, the sun shining above, the grass squelchy in a pleasant way beneath his feet. He almost wants to take off his shoes and feel it between his toes—almost.

What he really wants, though, is to find Geralt. Geralt, who saved him, who  _ always _ saves him, and who never gives him orders. Jaskier thinks vaguely that Geralt at least will probably find the scar slashed across his chest to be a positive feature, and the thought makes his pulse speed up happily. He’s feeling incredibly good about everything, minus the stiffness in his fingers and the fact that his chest is still tender.

He finds Geralt standing at the edge of what turns out to be a veritable village of tented houses. He has his back turned to Jaskier, his attention fixed on saddling up Roach, but Jaskier can see the way his shoulders are tensed, showing his discomfort even in what Geralt usually finds a pleasant task. Jaskier wonders if it has anything to do with his injury, although he’s certain he’s wrong. 

Geralt turns to look at Jaskier, and there’s a hardness to his expression that Jaskier can’t place, untouched even by the small smile he gives to Jaskier. Jaskier walks all the way up to him, stopping a foot or so away, and neither of them say anything. Jaskier smiles at Geralt, but there’s something curling nervously in his gut, something that has nothing to do with his injuries and everything to do with Geralt’s expression. 

“All better!” Jaskier says, gesturing to himself, as though it wasn’t clear. “Sorry for the delay, I got…held up by the rather unpleasant woman in there, but we can leave now.” Geralt doesn’t say anything, and that feeling in Jaskier’s stomach starts growing wings. “Yep, fit as a fiddle and ready for the next adventure.”

Geralt nods. His eyes flit around, barely landing on Jaskier’s, and even then looking away just as quickly. “Good.”

Jaskier wonders if he should thank him for the whole saving his life thing again, or if it will only exacerbate Geralt’s current unpleasant mood. “Where are we off to, then?” 

“I need to retrieve something,” Geralt says haltingly. He doesn’t elaborate. 

Jaskier nods. This mood isn’t entirely abnormal for Geralt, it’s just a bit of a step backward in terms of their communication—Jaskier had sort of thought they were past this. “Excellent, lead on.”

“Do you want to ride?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier blinks. Did Geralt hit his head or something? He narrows his eyes. “You never let me ride.”

Geralt swallows, his eyes never meeting Jaskier’s. It’s making Jaskier feel entirely, completely consumed with worry. What the actual fuck is going on? 

“You’re still recovering. I thought you might not want to walk a long distance.”

Jaskier’s pulse starts to pick up, for no reason except that he knows something is wrong. Geralt isn’t usually this attentive to what Jaskier might want—usually goes out of his way to make sure Jaskier  _ knows _ that he doesn’t care what Jaskier might want—and he’s acting especially skittish. And he’s literally never let Jaskier on Roach before. With the exception, apparently, of when he was so badly injured he had to be rushed here. 

“All right then,” Jaskier says slowly, “if you don’t mind.”

He expects Geralt to move away from Roach, but he stays determinedly put as Jaskier walks past Geralt and braces his hands against Roach’s saddle. Jaskier realizes that he’s not actually sure how bad his wounds were, or whether the likely magical healing left anything in a way that could be re-injured, and he hesitates before pulling himself up. 

“Here,” Geralt says from behind him, and  _ oh _ , Jaskier realizes Geralt is  _ very _ close to him when he places his hands lightly on Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier leans back into the touch without meaning to, his heart in his throat as Geralt easily lifts him up onto Roach’s back. Jaskier almost whines when he lets go, but stops himself just in time. Apparently being knocked out for a couple of days has really fucked with his self-control. 

“Thanks for the help,” Jaskier says shakily.

Geralt just nods, barely acknowledging him as they start moving, Geralt walking alongside Roach like this isn’t something he’s specifically said could never happen. The nervous feeling in Jaskier’s stomach refuses to leave. 

They’ve only been traveling for a few hours when Geralt stops them in a small town. Too small for an inn, barely big enough for a tavern. Jaskier can’t imagine why they’re stopping. 

“I’m going to see someone,” Geralt says, tying up Roach and letting Jaskier slide off her back by himself. “Will you wait here?” He indicates the building in front of them, which seems to be some kind of public house, small and dark and unassuming. Jaskier instantly distrusts it. 

“I can just come with you,” Jaskier says brightly. “My wounds are healed, no need to stay behind.” 

Geralt shakes his head, but doesn’t say no. “It won’t be safe.” He takes Jaskier’s arm and starts leading him towards the door. His hand is firm, and Jaskier is abruptly reminded that Geralt is far stronger than he is, but he also  _ knows _ Geralt, and he knows that Geralt won’t order him to stay. He just won’t. 

“Haven’t I proven by now that I’m not some frail thing?” Jaskier asks indignantly, gesturing to his chest and the scar below his shirt. Geralt’s gaze darkens . “Why? Who are you going to see?”

“A mage,” Geralt says, “and not a very pleasant one. He has something I need.”

“That’s all right, then. If I can handle a giant forest demon, I can certainly handle coming with you to retrieve your ingredients.”

“He won’t like it,” Geralt says, dragging Jaskier the remaining feet to the door and letting him go roughly. Jaskier wonders what it says about him that he still very much wants to kiss him, even when Geralt’s being a bit of an ass. “ _ It won’t be safe. _ ”

Jaskier starts to protest, but Geralt is already walking away from him. Jaskier knows he’s still recovering, but he doesn’t like Geralt walking off to some exciting adventure without him, and furthermore, he  _ has _ proven himself completely capable. He doesn’t need to be left behind like some  _ child _ . Besides, Geralt will never respect him if he doesn’t show himself worthy of that respect, and he can’t stand the thought of being left behind for good, if Geralt thinks he can’t handle the lifestyle. Jaskier is capable, more than capable. Fuck staying behind.

“Geralt!’ Jaskier turns from the building and hurries after Geralt, who’s already a fair distance away, turning down a small, isolated lane leading away from the town. 

Jaskier had almost forgotten that his injury impacted his lungs, but he remembers quickly enough as he tries to run after Geralt. Geralt’s legs aren’t much longer than Jaskier’s, but he can move much faster, and Jaskier has to remind himself to breathe and take his time. It’s not like he doesn’t know how to knock on a door or peer through a window, as long as he sees which house Geralt goes into. 

It turns out to not be an issue, as Geralt’s pace slows as he approaches the house. It’s a small house, covered in vines, the surrounding area overgrown with plants that look semi-intentional, like organized chaos. Jaskier touches a plant he’s never seen before and wrinkles his nose at the smell. He’s only a few feet away, hidden by an especially tall stalky plant, when Geralt knocks on the door and an oily-looking younger man opens it.

Jaskier can hear them talking as he approaches, and Geralt sounds agitated. He hurries up the path to the door. His hand stings slightly, and he hopes he didn’t touch anything poisonous. That would be just his luck, though. At least he knows that Geralt carries just about every salve possible. And the idea of Geralt rubbing it gently onto his palm is more appealing than Jaskier wants to admit. 

His mind is swirling with possible scenarios, which is why he doesn’t notice how Geralt’s posture tightens, how his eyes flare angrily, how his fists clench as Jaskier approaches. 

“Who is this?” the mage asks sharply as Jaskier stops next to Geralt. “You know how I feel about strangers, witcher.”

Geralt glares at Jaskier. “I do.” 

Jaskier shrugs off Geralt’s expression, and smiles charismatically at the mage. “I am but a humble bard writing of Geralt’s great deeds, which I assure you will include this one—fame and fortune await!” No one replies, which is a slight disappointment, since he was feeling good about his chances of charming everyone here. “Also, quick question, are any of these plants poisonous, because I may have touched a few?”

Geralt grits his teeth. “I  _ asked _ him to stay behind.”

Jaskier looks between Geralt and the mage, both of whom are looking at him like he’s breaking some kind of terrible rule, like he’s followed Geralt here under false pretenses and like both of them would absolutely love it if he could disappear into thin air. Jaskier tilts his eyes up to Geralt’s and sees nothing but the hard lines of anger. He wonders suddenly if he’s actually made a mistake by coming here, and it’s nothing to do with the possibly poisonous plants. 

“Ah, I see,” the mage says, his voice unsympathetic and hard. “Geralt, I’m afraid I can’t help you. You told me you’d come alone, and I don’t trust anyone who lies to me.”

Geralt opens his mouth to speak, but the door slams in their faces, shimmering slightly and disappearing, so that there is only a solid wall before them where the door had been. It’s actually not a bad party trick. Jaskier’s hand itches. 

Jaskier turns to Geralt, who is still glaring at him. Jaskier has been the subject of Geralt’s glares many times, but there’s always this kind emotion beneath it, something he can see in Geralt’s eyes, or the quirk of his lip, or the way he doesn’t leave. But now—now Jaskier can only see anger, and maybe sadness, nothing that says Geralt is secretly fond, or that he’s just waiting for Jaskier to say something less serious to diffuse the situation. This feels different. 

“Well, that didn’t go very well, did it?” Jaskier says, because he still has to try. 

It doesn’t work. 

“Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt yells, and storms away from the mage’s house. Jaskier hurries to catch up. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier isn’t sure if Geralt is actually slowing, or if he’s just suddenly struck with the inane fear of being left behind, but he gets close enough to grab Geralt’s arm before they’re out of the little isolated lane. Geralt pauses, Jaskier’s hand wrapped around his bicep, but he doesn’t turn around. “Geralt, I’m sorry. We’ll find another mage, or you can go back without me, and I’ll stay this time. Geralt?” Jaskier cautiously runs his hand down Geralt’s arm towards his hand.

When Geralt swivels, it’s so sudden Jaskier stumbles backwards, letting go of Geralt completely. 

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt growls. “I needed you to stay this time, I  _ asked  _ you to stay. Just like I asked you to stay back with the Leshen. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re only human, not invincible.” 

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m still here, aren’t I?” Jaskier shoots back without thinking. The fire in Geralt’s eyes seems to be contagious. 

“No,” Geralt says quietly, then louder, his voice rising: “No, Jaskier. Leave! Stop following me! Go away, and don’t try to find me!”

Jaskier feels like the world is tilting sideways. The words settle heavily over him, pressing him into the ground. He thinks helplessly of the kiss, of Geralt touching his face, of Geralt’s hands lifting him up, of Geralt’s tiny smile that’s only there for Jaskier. Jaskier thinks he’s going to be sick. “W-what?”

Geralt’s eyes betray nothing, but his voice is softer again, exhausted. “Leave me, Jaskier.” Geralt lifts his gaze to Jaskier’s, and Jaskier can almost see a flicker of sadness before it’s gone. “That’s an order.”

Jaskier blinks away the hot threat of tears as he stares at Geralt. He can’t…he can’t process any of this, he can’t  _ leave _ , he doesn’t want to leave, he doesn’t want to lose what’s become the most important thing in his life. It’s too late, though. Geralt’s words leave no room for interpretation, and the suffocating blanket of an order settles heavily over Jaskier. 

_ Leave me. _

“Geralt, wait—“ Jaskier calls out, but Geralt is already turning away, already walking away. Jaskier feels a cry bubble up in his throat, and he tries to take a step forward, tries to propel himself past the boundary of the order, tries to follow Geralt out of sheer will alone, out of want, out of need. He doesn’t make it more than a step, and falls to his knees on the dusty road. His head is pounding, blood dripping from his nose. 

He stays there, unable to move forward, unwilling to look away, until Geralt disappears around the corner, and Jaskier lets himself fall apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Geralt gives Jaskier an explicit order despite their understanding that he would not do this and that Jaskier would be forced to obey it. 
> 
> This will be resolved in the next chapter, so please skip this one if you need to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> Everything's written for this fic but editing is slow...
> 
> [Come say hi to me on tumblr!](https://margosfairyeye.tumblr.com).


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